When Percival Henry J. Tompkins, mammalogist, walked into the First State Bank the next morning, he wore his best professorial air.
Moses J. Crowfoot, more generally known as Sidewinder, was his own banking force, and sat alone at a desk behind a grill which hedged off most of the bank. He was not afraid of robbers. No professional robber in the combined areas of Nevada, Utah and New Mexico would have dreamed of tackling the Stovepipe Springs bank, because Sidewinder Crowfoot was an old-timer who knew his business. Three amateurs had undertaken the job two years previously, and each of them received a forty-five slug squarely between the eyes.
The nickname was highly appropriate. Like his namesake, Crowfoot was highly venomous, he struck without warning, and he struck to kill; he was not a pleasant man, and he did not care to be pleasant. He lived alone. In the old dim days, Sidewinder had been a monte dealer in the Alcora Dance Hall; when the law clamped down on gambling, he had owned the Oasis Saloon; when the law clamped down on liquor, he had gone into banking. Some people would claim this was natural evolution.
He looked up at his visitor without speaking. Tompkins, entirely ignoring what had happened upon his arrival in town, came forward to the grill and smiled.
“This, I believe, is Mr. Crowfoot? I have been referred to you, as owner of the local garage. I desire to rent an automobile with which to survey near-by areas of the great American desert and pursue my investigations of the fauna—”
“Can’t be done,” said Sidewinder curtly. “We only got one rent car, and that’s engaged. The other’s a demonstrater, and we can’t rent it or we’d never sell it.”
“Ah! Thank you very much indeed,” said Tompkins, and turned to the door. “In that case I had better buy it.”
Before Sidewinder could call up any suitable retort, his visitor was gone to the garage next door; before Sidewinder could get there, money had changed hands and the shiny flivver reposing on the garage floor was the property of the Professor. Finding himself too late to prevent the purchase, Crowfoot put on his best air and engaged Tompkins in amiable talk, while the mechanic in charge filled the car with oil and gas and put in half a dozen water-bags.
“Hassayamp was telling me,” observed the banker, “that you were askin’ about a man named Ramsay. Seems to me like I recall the feller. Friend of yours?”
“A mere acquaintance,” said Tompkins. “I met him at Palmdale, on the other side of the Mohave, while I was engaged in a study of the curious flora over there. Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him! He had lost one eye, and was afflicted with tuberculosis, and was at the age of sixty-five with not a cent in the world. He mentioned that he thought of coming in this direction to locate, having been here some twenty years ago during the mining boom.”
“Oh!” said Sidewinder, with a relieved air. “Then it aint the same one. The one who went through here last year was a right young feller, red-haired and active. If I was you, Perfesser, I’d get loose of that Sagebrush. He aint only a desert rat, and folks tell mighty queer stories about him. All desert rats are queer in the head, you know.”
“Why—er—that’s very good of you, indeed!” said Tompkins gratefully. “Still, I have engaged the man, perhaps heedlessly, and must keep my promises for a certain time. I suppose, if I were to deposit my money and valuables with you, I’d be in no danger!”
“Right good plan,” said Sidewinder. “Step into the bank, and we’ll arrange it.”
Tompkins obediently retraced his steps, and when he displayed his two certified checks and his roll of loose bills, the banker became almost affable. Tompkins, meantime, was quite conscious that he was being closely studied, and did not hesitate to shove out all his chips and play the game of innocence. He agreed at once that the best scheme was to deposit all his money in care of Mr. Crowfoot, taking the latter’s receipt for it, and his air of eager gratitude was pleasant to behold.
“Whom would you recommend as a guide?” he inquired, when the transaction was completed. “After a trip with the person I have engaged, I might find it advisable to take another cicerone.”
“Right good idea,” said Mr. Crowfoot. “Hassayamp’s a good man—I tell you! There’s a feller will be in town next week. I’ll speak to him about it. Harrison, his name is—Mesquite Harrison.”
A slight pallor crossed the face of Tompkins, but he responded gratefully: “By all means. Kindly engage him for me. I shall expect to use him at once, and thank you again for your kindness in the matter.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Sidewinder, and grinned to himself when his caller had departed. There was no longer any doubt that the Professor was what Hassayamp proclaimed him—a natural-born fool, like all bug-hunters. No one else would have handed over his money so readily.
Tompkins walked back to the hotel, and on the doorstep of his own cell found Sagebrush awaiting him. Inside, with the door closed, the desert rat chuckled.
“I reckon Hassayamp is right uppity over losin’ the chance to guide ye, Perfesser,” he announced. “But you done jest right. Hassayamp don’t know nothin’ about the desert.”
“No?” Tompkins lighted his pipe. “He lives here, doesn’t he?”
“Sho! He’s like José Garcia; let a vinegaroon git on him, and he throws a fit. No sir, Hassayamp jest plumb aint a desert man. He knows a sight o’ locations. Him and Sidewinder have sold a hell of a lot, too. Folks buy a place and set awhile, and next time I come in to town, they’re gone. Thar’s cabins all over betwixt yere and the Chuckwallas, where the ground has been sold and deserted. Hassayamp hires fellers to prove up on homestead rights, then buys the homestead off’m ’em and sells it again. He aint no guide, though. All he knows is roads. Git him off’m the road, or show him a t’rant’ler in his blankets, and gosh! Hassayamp is worse’n a tenderfoot. Say, I heard a good one on him this trip!”
Sagebrush chuckled again, spat on the floor, and scratched his whiskers.
“Met up with two fellers in the Salt Pans—ol’ Hardrock Miller from Tucson, and another feller. Hardrock used to be a Mormon ’fore they run him out of Arizona for bein’ too durned Mormonistic. He tells me Hassayamp used to be one too, away over to St. John’s, ’bout fifteen year back. ’Cordin’ to him, Hassayamp vanished real sudden one night, and so did all the money belongin’ to the church, and several head of hosses belongin’ to other folks. May not be true, though. Hardrock Miller saved hisself from bein’ lynched once by tellin’ the truth, and aint never done it since. Afraid his luck’d turn, maybe.”
Tompkins smiled. “Know a fellow by the name of Mesquite Harrison?”
“Do I?” Sagebrush scowled and spat again. “Is that skunk in town? Then by gosh, I’m goin’ for him!” The desert rat shot a hand to his waistband, where there was a swelling about the size of a revolver. “Why, Perfesser, Mesquite is rank pizen! Yessir. I’ve knowed him to rob prospectors of their grub—it’s a fact! And once he changed the signs over in the Salt Pans, so’s a poor pilgrim took his team the wrong way and durned near died, and that skunk Mesquite robbed him bare. By gosh, anybody who changes water-hole signs in the Salt Pans gits shot on sight! Mesquite knows it, too. He don’t come to town when I’m due, usually—”
“He’s not here now,” said Tompkins. “I heard the name mentioned; that’s all. I’ve bought a flivver, and I wish you’d purchase all supplies necessary and get them loaded into the back seat. Strap her down good. We can get off in the morning.”
“Gosh!” said Sagebrush, a far-away look in his eyes. “It’ll seem lonesome as hell without them burros—well, s’pose I got to do it. Where we goin’ to?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“I’d sort o’ like to look over them ledges jest this side the Chuckwallas—over by Pinecate Cañon,” said the desert rat thoughtfully.
“Can we find any crotalus cerastes there?”
“I reckon so. Find most anything there.” Sagebrush inspected his employer curiously. “Say, you aint so bad a feller when you git off to yourself, Perfesser. You talk real human. Kind of put on dog when there’s any folks around, don’t you?”
Tompkins laughed. “I expect I do, Sagebrush. How about water over by that place you mentioned—Pinecate Cañon?”
“Plenty right now. Rains aint only jest quit. Another two weeks, and we wont find nary a drap. Cañon ought to look right pretty; too, with the flowers. The desert sure is handsome this time o’ year. All the bugs comin’ out,’ too, so’s you’ll feel to home. Lots o’ tumblebugs over by the mesa and cañon—that’s how come it’s called Pinecate, bein’ the Mex name for tumblebug.”
“Ever hear of a fellow named Ramsay, who was interested in mines around here?”
“Nope.” Sagebrush rose. “Well, I reckon I’ll go git them supplies, then git my correspondence finished today. See you around sunup tomorrow.”
He departed. Tompkins, left alone, opened his two large grips and began to pack one of them for the trip. The larger part of the contents consisted of supplies such as could not be purchased in Stovepipe Springs; there was even a large alcohol stove with plentiful fuel. The packing finished, from a secret pocket inside the grip Tompkins took a letter and began to peruse it carefully, not for the first nor the tenth time. The envelope had been postmarked “Stovepipe Springs” and bore a date of a year past. It was the final portion of the letter which attracted the rereading of Tompkins, however.
Enclosed is the deed to the property. I am more than satisfied with the prospects of the location. You will notice that the mining rights revert to the State in most instances, but here I have bought the land outright so there is no question of mineral rights. A man called Mesquite Harrison owned it.
I have seldom seen a more beautiful spot, even after the desert rains, for it is filled with all kinds of flowers. What a pity that flowers and water cannot last! Halfway up the cañon there is a huge boulder of pink granite, split squarely in two, with three piñons growing out of the split, and a tiny spring trickling from the piñons. Really a marvel! I understand the spring never fails, though it is too tiny to be of much use. Well, good-by for this time. I’m going to spend two months at the location, and if it has any gold I’ll know by that time.
Your loving brother,
ALEC.
Tompkins folded the letter and put it away again, then sat down and sucked at his empty pipe.
“Poor Alec—what happened to him, I wonder!” he muttered. “And not a thing to go on. Deed to the property lost. No way of finding its location. Never recorded the deed. How was that deed lost? The letter was mailed here. It must have been in the letter. Therefore—but I’ve no proof. Hell! Once let me get a grip on something definite!”
He seized his glasses impatiently, donned them, and left the room. Outside he almost ran into Miss Gilman. She greeted him brightly.
“Good morning, sir! I hope your digestion is better today?”
“No, it’s worse.” Tompkins smiled. “Please remember to say nothing of my remarks.”
“I’ll have no chance,” she returned. “We’re leaving after breakfast tomorrow. Mr. Foster—otherwise Hassayamp—is taking me over toward those hills in the east. He knows of a splendid location for my chicken-ranch. Pinecate Mesa—isn’t that a romantic name?”
“Very,” said Tompkins gravely. “Very romantic. It means tumblebug. I may be going in that direction myself, so I’ll hope to see you again.”
And before she could say yea or nay to this, he went on his way.